Lines On The Death Of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., Of Dublin.

If ever life was prosperously cast,
    If ever life was like the lengthened flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
    'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.
    The simple heart above all worldly wiles;
Light wit that plays along the calm of life,
    And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower,
    Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
    Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves
    And brightens every gift by fortune given;
That, wander where it will with those it loves,
    Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.--Oh, thou who read'st this stone,
    When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,
    That ye like him may live, like him may die!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

A Melologue Upon National Music.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Desmond's Song.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Ghost Story. To The Air Of "Unfortunate Miss Bailey."

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Wellington Spa.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

On The Death Of A Lady,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
    Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
    Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
    And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal--
    Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
    But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
    Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
    So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
    We thought thou wert not formed to die.

Thomas Moore

Lines On The Death Of Mr. Perceval.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
    Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,
    And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,
    And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,
    And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude,
    'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was--and, content to be good,
    Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.

So, left thro' their own little orbit to move,
    His years might have rolled inoffensive away;
His children might still have been blest with ...

Thomas Moore

Lines Written In A Storm At Sea.

That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
        Of her he loves--
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
        That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
        In this dark hour,
Than when, in passion's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
        To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
        To pleasure's thrill;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
        Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow
        In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow

Thomas Moore

On The Death Of A Friend.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
    By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance which the wise and good
    Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee--
So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm
    Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife,
Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm,
    Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

Thomas Moore

Address To The Scholars Of The Village School

I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand:, it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground....

William Wordsworth

Thomas Moore.

The land of poetry and mirth,
Of orators and statesmen, too,
To one more genial, ne'er gave birth,
Than when, gay Moore, it brought forth you.

The land of Goldsmith, Wolfe and Burke,
May well, with gladness, sound thy name,
And honor thee, whose life and work
Produc'd a bright and joyous flame.

Thy lively genius, sparkling, free,
Emitted rays, which sparkle yet,
And gladden hearts across the sea,
When tears of pain their eyelids wet.

Mild Goldsmith sang with taste, and well,
And so did Wolfe, his plaintive ode,
But thou, alone, possess'd the spell,
That served to ease thy country's load.

O'Connell work'd with wondrous skill,
With silv'ry tongue, and prudent head,
With patriotic heart and will,
To ease Oppression's crushin...

Thomas Frederick Young